Ecuador III: Let Me Count The Ways

The truck drivers were pushy and had no respect for personal space. We had to share a customs window with them to get Bolívar out of Peru. When my turn came, one of them swiftly moved my helmet to the end of the counter and pushed in front. I pushed back and though his face was far too close for comfort, I firmly told him to step aside. My nice customs lady admonished him too. Three could play at that game.

Even though these borders are integrated, there’s always lots to do. Get yourself out of one country and into the next, get Bolívar out of one country and into the next (not necessarily in that order). Show your insurance, don’t show your insurance, all the while making sure all three of you are given the right, and the same, number of days. Though we were in and out of migración lines, customs queues and hastily unpacking our bags for scanning, Fran and I found time to have a vigorous domestic debate. It couldn’t be helped, the humidity was killing us. Under our jackets (no liners), and inside our pants, we were melting.

We made up on the autopista north: a quick squeeze on the passenger’s left knee from up front, a double pat on the driver’s hips from the back. It’s hard to hold a grudge when you’re breathing in the fresh air of a new country.  Crossing the long bridge into Guayaquil, I was uneasy about the pickup truck full of cops driving alongside us for most of the way. I needn’t have worried, they were just discussing Bolívar. (Though he mightn’t possess the charm of Pferdi, that boy still manages to turn heads.) We were just getting into the smaller, crowded streets when a car pulled-in in front and waved us over to the curb. A middle-aged man jumped out and, oh lord, all the cars behind us started honking. Then his wife exited, followed by the granny, and finally a teenage boy. With face-splitting smiles and embracing arms we grouped around Bolívar while they took turns taking selfies. Then, as quickly as they’d appeared, they were gone, waving thanks to the traffic that had by now slowed to a crawl. Welcome to Ecuador’s largest city.

Out under great scudding clouds, every field, riverbank and mountainside screamed green, not just forty shades, but hundreds, thousands even. And because we were so high, the skies were always low, with volcanoes floating above the mist, like a second horizon: a middle world between us and heaven. On the flat we passed through corridors of banana plantations, the hanging bags of blue and pink like overgrown Christmas decorations. Climbing into the mountains, plateaus ended abruptly and deep narrow valleys cracked the entire vista in two. There was just so much to take in, I didn’t know which way to look, but the smile on my face stayed constant the whole darned day.

Click Arrows for Slideshow:

Wandering around, riding past villages and farms, we got lost on a steep country road. Above, at ridiculous altitudes, tiny fields were being harvested by hand, old ladies and little men leaning at impossible angles; the only way to stay upright was to lay down. Along the lanes, women in pointed hats and wide skirts carried heavy loads of sticks and grasses. At a bus stop, another waved at me, like a friendly witch. Unfortunately Quito was unavoidable. On the forested ring road we were doing quite well, until we weren’t, and once again found ourselves taking a short ride in the wrong direction. It’s the same every time, and frustrating when it happens in a city this size, to see the freeway you should’ve been on recede into the distance. But we did make it onto the other side of the equator, so that’s a plus.

We were enjoying this stolen time in Ecuador, but it was our third visit so we didn’t plan to linger long. A life like ours can be isolating, this time round even more so than in the early years on the Ural. Our longest conversations these days were with the gas station ladies. These invariably begin with Fran climbing off Bolívar, which after many hours of riding, proves a lengthy and not-so-graceful process. (And that’s when his foot doesn’t get caught on the extra bags.) Once the eye-rolling and the giggling stops, an opportunity for a chat usually arises, but honestly, that’s just not sustainable. We can’t spend all day hanging round the pumps making new best-friends. We were also getting a bit weary of hotel life so opted to make Ibarra our final stop. Finca Sommerwind was a place where we knew what was what and even which German mustard it’d be topped with. The owner Hans had helped us enter Ecuador last year. We hadn’t the required police report, so he put our names on a special Ministry of Tourism list and we breezed in. Thankfully this year, due to a supposed hook-up with Interpol, this was no longer needed. The lakeside was as tranquil as we remembered: we got the highest cabana on the hill, the beer garden had been extended and the field below was still storing monster overlanding trucks, Land Cruisers, Land Rovers and camper vans, all waiting for their owners to return from a stint at home, or earning more money to continue their travels. It’s always interesting to discover the myriad of ways people adjust their situations to make a life on the road possible. Many of their means and methods were extremely imaginative, and sensible too, proving that if there’s a will, there really is a way.

We settled in for several days, catching-up on laundry and business, and in the hours when we weren’t walking around the lake, lay in the hammock and contemplated it. There were only four other guests, two couples: Swiss and German. The Swiss were friendly and stopping by the front door of their MAN truck after shopping one day, Bolívar looked quite David-like in front of their Goliath. We’ve always wanted to see inside one of these behemoths, and we were in awe. The shower stall was almost as big as our old California bathroom, Swiss precision had laid out perfectly aligned storage drawers in every available nook and we were served coffee from a matching set of cups and coffee pot. You gotta love those Swiss. They make the Germans look sloppy.

When we’d arrived at Hans’s this time, we were a bit down, thinking of our previous two visits when the journey south was still ahead of us. After spending time with fellow wanderers though, and surrounded by vehicles with more travel stories than Ferdinand Magellan, the route north didn’t feel quite so wrong anymore. It was just another road, the same way this spot was just another crossroads. If you looked down on it from outer space, you’d see tiny vehicles, busily arriving and departing, some staying longer than others. You’d observe a whole world of people taking a break from a life on the move, or ready to restart it with renewed exuberance. You’d watch Portuguese engineers, Australian teachers, German mechanics and American pilots whose only plan was to wake up to a different view each morning. And not to leave the little ones out, you’d admire the French toddlers, home-schooled across the rear axle like it was the most natural classroom in the world, which in a way it was. “How do they all do it?” I hear you ask.  Well…..…since we’re on the subject, let me count the ways…….

Click Arrows for Slideshow: